A Leather Interior
by Retro Soul
Summary: For years, out-cast soc; Clark Monroe had been watching a specific young greaser. Little did he know that there was a night he would come face to face with him.
1. Chapter 1

I watched him. That boy with the greased back hair and the greenish-grey eyes that seeped into your soul. I wouldn't watch him to mock him or to laugh at his ways. In fact, I envied the boy and his way of life, so diverse and different from my own. I had watched the boy for years, the way he walked, the way he spoke, the way he smoked his cigarette. There was an attraction there for sure. An attraction to what? His way of life? His looks? His style of dress? Whatever it was, it was enough to capture a soc like myself. Yes, I am a soc. Or a social. Whatever it is they call it. Although, I was ashamed of my label as a slave would be ashamed of his race. I coveted the greasers and everything about them, unlike the people who surrounded me that cursed them and beat down on them for the fun of it all. If you were to ask me, I'd tell you that I am not a soc. Not on the inside. My inside is a smokey interior with cigarettes, hair grease, cheap leather and old cars. My exterior is a prim and proper young man with hair cut respectively and my collar straightened.

I came from a wealthy home, the south side of town. Everyone knew me as 'Nice boy, Clark Monroe'. I desperately wanted to change that. And I was willing to become a greaser, in spite of my background and in spite of my previous way of life. But how is a soc to simply change sides when there is such a hate between the two? It is not simple, nor is it easy.

Yes, I watched that boy for several years without uttering a word to him. He was unaware of my obsession and oblivious to my dream. My dream to escape my label, my background. But in a town as small as ours, becoming a different person was close to impossible. Shortly after my watch began with the one boy, it inspired more quests. Before I knew it, everywhere I went, I would absentmindedly gawk at the greasers, admiring them. While they all inspired me, there were three in particular that kindled my dream.

The first greaser, was obviously the boy I had started with. The first one that caught my crooked eye. He was younger than most, his reddish-brown hair was what they called "tuff" and his cool eyes ran deep, perhaps they ran forever. In all the times that I minded him, our eyes had never met. I wouldn't have it any other way, that young greaser wouldn't bother to care about me. By just glancing at me, there was nothing different or outstanding. You'd only see it if you looked into my insides. Often, I thought; _maybe the young greaser would see through me_, but I never got close enough to trying. It would be a prolonged time before I brought myself before him and exposed myself to him.

The second watch came by accident but it was a well respected one. The young man's rusty side burns stained the side of his face and his witty grey eyes could bore into anyone. What attracted me to this loud mouthed imp was his sense of roughness, yet his personality was quite opposite from his looks. Very different from the third greaser that stopped my eye.

Dallas Winston, that was the greaser's name. I could tell you, the only outstanding reason I was aware of his name was the popularity he had with my people. That, and after I heard his name, I was so astounded by it that I decided to peruse him. Not romantically. I am heterosexual. Not belonging to any other sexual group. But I must admit this vice of mine to you-I was attracted to Dallas Winston. Him and the young greaser with the peering eyes. I couldn't help it, it was soon an obsession. I was only able to withhold the information for so long until I was discovered.

"What the hell are you staring at, _Saukerl_?" my friend, Helmut Frauller, cursed at me as my eyes gazed past his mane of copper hair and settled on the young greaser with the tuff reddish hair. Jolting back to reality, I eyed Helmut.

"Huh?"

"_Horst_" He cursed again in German, calling me a moron. Yes, Helmut was verbally abusive but he was the only soc I could tolerate, the others making me sick and wanting to vomit. Furthermore, I had learned some new curses from that loud-mouth. We were what you would portray as the out casts. Even though we were soc class, our personalities and our backgrounds constrained us from truly being socs and from wanting the others to socialize with us. Which I was content with, I resented the label. But for someone like Helmut Frauller, it was his race that separated him from everyone else. The only factor that was keeping that boy in the loop was his father's wealth and his style of dress. Helmut had moved to Tulsa from Hamburg, Germany, a substantial adjustment. The wild stories he'd tell me about the strip clubs and the bars, the night clubs and the poker games. Unlike the greaser life I was obsessed with, these stories had no meaning to me - they did nothing for me. As for myself, it was my personality that differed me from the other socs. The fact that I didn't belong made them look at me that way - it was my attitude that made them stray away from me. And so, me and Helmut had each other. It was not my choice but I learned to appreciate that foul mouthed foreigner.

"What were you looking at, _Arschloch_?" he spat at me again, staring hard in the direction that I was . A thing you should be knowledgeable about was Helmut's vocabulary. It consisted of many word but three in particular. _Saukerl, Saumensch _and_ Arschloch_. I am not one to command you but if you are ever to encounter a German, I'd advise you never repeat these words to his face.

"N-nothing. I was thinking." I stuttered. Helmut looked at me, sceptical.

"You've got your head in the clouds, Clark." he muttered sourly. I ran my hand through my own bronze head of hair as my left eye slipped past Helmut and remained on the young greaser and my right eye, in fact, focussed on Helmut.

He wasn't aware of it, even I wasn't aware of it, but that night, there would be a fight. Between the socs and the greasers. Well, maybe I was aware. But I wasn't aware that was the night I'd have my first face to face encounter with the tuff haired greaser who I had kept watch on for years.


	2. Chapter 2

The fight, or the rumble, was to be expected. And as usual, I could be expected not to show up. Though, they did not want me there. It was evident. Rumbles were pointless, the whole concept of fighting and beating one another was utterly futile. Therefore, I did not support it. It wouldn't be until a certain event that I would protest it and speak freely of my opinion, whilst also being persecuted for my views.

"Come on,_ Saumensch._" Helmut had said to me that evening when he knocked on my door."Let's go."

"Go where?" I asked, confused. At first, my stomach twisted, thinking he was possibly referring to the rumble. But Helmut couldn't be that dunce. He knew my opinion of fighting.

But, despite his knowledge, he bellowed, "The fight, _Saukerl_!". I let out a exhausted sigh and began to explain to him that I didn't support it, therefore, he would have to find someone else to accompany him. To which, he spit at my door step and cursed.

Once back inside, my mother inquired as to who was at the door.

"A friend, ma." I muttered and hopped the steps up to my room where I was assumed to spend the rest of the night. I was not one for socializing. I never had been. I lay on my bed, my gaze focused on the texture of the ceiling and my mind focused on the rumble. Greasers would be beaten down as the socs would laugh at them while they gulped back their alcohol and ganged up on them. My thoughts flooded my mind until it was an unholy hour and all the lights were out, I lay in the dark with nothing but my thoughts. Until a tapping noise came upon my window, at that point I was drifting in and out of sleep. I wasn't sure if the noise was imagined or, in fact, reality. My uncertainty would be answered when I a voiced called out in a whisper, "Open the _verdammt_ window, you _Arschloch_!". I dragged myself from my bed and pushed the window up with weak arms. The street lights blinded me yet seeped in through my window and lit up my room, like a flood light.

"What? Jeez, Helmut, what time is it?" I sleepily called down to him, my eyes refusing to stay open.

"Its 1:30! Now get your _arsch_ down here!" he scolded. I didn't see the point in arguing with Helmut. It would either end in a series of German curses and him sourly stomping away or it would end his way. Never in my own. Dressing in the customary soc style clothing that I owned, I reluctantly jumped from my opened window to the dirt ground below, the distance wasn't substantial. Still in a sleepy state, Helmut pulled me by the arm, dragging me. It had a dream like quality, being dragged to the rumble that night. I wouldn't say against my will. I very capable of resisting Helmut's urge but I think I was slightly curious that night. Curious of what a rumble consisted of. I had never been to one, I never cared for the violence, the profanity nor the factor that most of the fighters were drunk. Not that I wasn't one for the drink. I was. But I was not one to get overly drunk.

"Surprised you showed up." Bob Sheldon, the top soc, acknowledged us when we arrived. It was slightly blind sighted, Bob Sheldon had hardly ever spoken to me, let alone confirmed that I existed. And I would disappoint him. It was irrelevant that I wouldn't fight. It was an abandoned lot, the area that we awaited the greasers. The dirt ground was sparsely covered with grass. The weeds grew high that they brushed against our legs. The street lights lit up the lot, the light reflecting off the faces. It wasn't until hollering and the roaring of a car that I snapped into reality. That I realized what I was doing.

"I have to leave." I said panicked as I set in motion to leave. Helmut grabbed me by the arms and pulled me back with force.

"What do you mean you have to leave? This is the first rumble you've ever been to! You're not going anywhere, _Saukerl_!" he cursed at me. Now, against my will, I stood at Helmut's side, my insides twisting and turning. Staring absentmindedly at the lace of my shoe, the fight commenced. The grunting, the sound of fist meeting flesh, the kicks, the shouts, the sound of bones cracking and breaking. It filled my ears until my head snapped up. And that's when I saw him. The young greaser with the peering grey eyes, the tuff reddish hair and the way it was slicked back. He stood up tall, he was striking.

"Hello, I am the observer. I wish to meet you." is what my soul said. But my mouth did not comply. It simply hung open like a stupid fool. How could I speak to a man with such a diverse life style, outlook, appearance, heart, world as mine? Yes, we lived in the same world but on the other hand, we did not. Greasers and socs had different worlds and led different lives. And that was that.


	3. Chapter 3

**I'd like to thank you guys for the reviews, I was considering abandoning this story but the further reviews gave me hope. Thank you.**

Yes, the young greaser was handsome. I would not deny him of that right, it was one he most righteously obtained. He deserved it. He deserved any label I appointed to him. After all, I had been watching him for years. Though, I had never been so close before. Close enough to shudder with his overwhelming presence. By the way I portray this boy, you'd think him to be a god of some sort. He was no god, but a man of principles. I can tell you, from certain incidents that I've witnessed, that he was fair.

I stood there in a daze, my bronze locks being whipped in the violent wind. It appeared the boy was cowering away from the two teams, hurling themselves at each other, growling out insults. The young greaser seemed to camouflage himself into the milieu. I felt a certain connection to him, us both being out casts. We took no part in the violence and we saw no difference between the two sides: a human was a human despite his upbringing. Although, I slightly differed from him. I was clandestinely rooting for the opposite side.

"Hey, grease. Thought you could get off easy?" a soc of my squad hissed at the young greaser and down he went, being clobbered and beaten. The poor soul had no hope, his petite frame would be broken to pieces before anyone could help him. And as the moments commenced, it didn't look like anyone would come to his rescue. Where was his gang to help him up? Where was his chums to put him back on his feet? They were being pulverized by socs. That's were they were. A painful guilt panned against my chest, making me grasp it with my perspiring hand. Where was his savoir?

I was him.

Helmut would curse me, there was no doubt about it. "What the _holle _are you doing, _Saukerl_?" I could just hear his obnoxious voice echo through my head, that was exactly something the typical Helmut Frauller would say. Sometimes, I wondered if his parents approved of his foul vocabulary. After all, he was just 17, like myself. I would've been scolded for using such language.

After chiding myself for sometime, I faced the fact that if I did not help the young greaser, he would have severe wounds, scarring his dashing face. That, I did not want. In a form of a daze, I stalked over to the two, still rolling around in the mud, the greaser being pounded to the ground. I was not a muscular type, I wouldn't be able to peel the soc off of him. What I did next, I couldn't even bring myself to believe that I, clean and proper Clark Monroe, would do such a thing. Some would find it humorous. I suppose, looking back on it now, it was quite comical but in the moment, it was a foolish and impish decision.

With one swift motion, I undid the buckle of my brass belt, extracting it from the hoops of my beige pants, griping the cold metal in my hand. The brass slab was heavy and cumbersome. Taking a deep breath, I stuck the soc over the head with it, his body ceasing from the punches he was throwing and he collapsed momentarily. Moving promptly, I hauled the young greaser up by his arms and dragged him from the fight, we made it to the side walk in silence. I had one hand gripping the boy's arm and the other grasping onto my trousers, should they fall.

He broke the silence by looking to me, his face beaten and his eyes refusing to stay open, he groaned in pain. "Sodapop, is that you?" I took a hard swallow, unsure of what to say to the boy. Who was Sodapop?

Slightly blind sighted, I just nodded and said, "Yes, its Sodapop.". I dragged the boy down the town's abandoned streets, the streetlights shining down on us and the moon spying on the two boys from two different worlds. Where was I to take this boy? I couldn't take him home, I couldn't take him back to the rumble. Suddenly I was struck with a muse - to take this injured greaser to the place I sat to gawk at them, the abandoned house on the border of West St. I would blend into its ruins as I would watch the greasers jitter by in their cars and in their gang rallies.

I set the boy down softly on the rotting steps of the abandoned house, the boy was falling in and out of consciousness, while his chest heaved and he muttered words that would make no logic. I sat back and gazed up at the early morning sky. The stars were still glaring back at me but the sky's blackness seemed to fade into redness and ginger near the horizon. I turned back to the young greaser but by then, he had fallen into slumber.


	4. Chapter 4

That night, I had fallen deep into slumber, not long after the young greaser who lay at my feet, his wounds exposed. _What were you thinking, Clark? _I had scolded myself as I slowly drifted into the land of dreams. _This boy needs a nurse, not __**you**_. Before long, I had grown too drowsy to argue with myself and put the debate on pause.

When I awoke, the sunrise cracked through and seeped into my vision. Where was I? I racked my brain, trying to remember. Had I fallen asleep while I was watching the greasers stroll by in their leather and denim? Or had I slipped out my window in attempt to escape the stuffiness and the confinement of my home? I looked to my left and, resting near my head, was the buckle of my brass belt. A diminutive smile slowly crept across my face as, suddenly, all the memories from the night before came rushing back, flooding my mind, causing me to snap my body up. Starring at me where a pair of green-grey eyes, they flickered in my direction with nothing but the voice of fear. Was he a creature, a spirit, perhaps a master of disguise? No, he was the young greaser with the eyes of a tiger that had mesmerised me for years. There we sat, face to face, all words seemed to be lost into the air and, for no good reason, we sat, taking in each other's features. Finally, the boy spoke, pulling himself out of his trance.

"Who are you?" he demanded, attempting to jump to his feet, but failing, on account of his injuries. I could do nothing but continue to keep my eyes locked with his. His voice was just as beautiful as his face. "Huh?" he pressed, his welcoming eyes turning abrasive. Finally, I got my jaw to work and my vocals to make a sound.

"Clark Monroe." I said, firm and dropping the words as if they meant nothing. I _was_ nothing beside that boy. I cannot tell you what he had done to deserve such respect but, for me, I had seen what the naked eye cannot see.

He eyed me, still appearing uncertain of me. Couldn't he see I was just as vulnerable as him? I didn't even give a thought to taking advantage over him and making myself boss. To me, he had the advantage. Part of me still couldn't phantom at the fact that this young greaser was in front of me, speaking to me, acknowledging my existence. I had been a stranger in the back for so long.

"So you're the one who pulled me outta the rumble?" the boy stated, not removing his eyes from my face. I warily nodded. He must have detected my vulnerability, my submission to him, because, with a slightly trembling arm, he extended his hand towards me. Was I ready to be introduced, to be acquainted to the stranger from afar? Maybe I was, but I wouldn't need to be sure until much later, because the boy asked me; "Do you mind helping me home?". His extended hand was a plea for help, not an invitation for a companion.

Swallowing my rejection, I took the boy's hand, placing it over my shoulder and, just like the night before, I carried him down the streets of Tulsa.

I'll admit I'm socially awkward. I always had been, that's why I was friends with Helmut. He was the exact opposite of me, but also similar in certain ways. He was bold, boisterous and, yes, vulgar. That is what gave me the courage to speak to him, because he was so unlike me. Also, the adding factor that we were both so diverse from the others in our social class, you might say we were the outsiders.

"So, uh, where do you live? Y'know, so I can drop you off. Not so I can come back and trash your house with my friends. To tell the truth, I don't really have any friends. Well, besides Helmut but I'm not sure what you'd call him. Anyway, what I was meaning to ask you was, where did you want me to drop you off?" I stammered, babbling like a fool. Why had I felt the need to tell him all of that information, I don't know. When meeting new people, I often tended to over explain myself. But the young greaser thought nothing of it, he just laughed. Picture that, him laughing in his state.

"You aint like other socs, are you? It's a wonder I haven't seen you around." the boy chuckled, the abrasiveness in his lively green-grey eyes were replaced with amusement.

"I don't go out much." I replied, turning back to my reserved state. I had played over in my mind, many times, what I'd do and say if I was to meet my observed but why had I not put any of those words into a sentence? Why had they not come out?

We got further down the roads, the scenery started to change. The abandoned house was on the border of the West and East side, but as we got further East, the houses started to look more neglected, the cars more roughed up and the lawns more mistreated.

"L-look, maybe I should just drop you off here…" I hesitated and stopped at a person's lawn, seeing certain greasers eyeing me, and not the way I eyed them. Not in a respectable, desirable way. No, these greasers were pondering why a soc was on the East side. And if there was no good reason, they would pulverize me exactly like we pulverized them. Somehow, this made me a victim.

"Oh, uh…yeah." the young greaser understood my sudden hesitation. Truth be told, I didn't want to just drop the boy, I must've appeared small and cowardly. But in the heat of moment, I didn't mind being a gutless fool, fear struck, a pathetic soc. I just wanted to retreat to somewhere those cold eyes wouldn't be on me, watching my every move, debating whether to beat me over or to leave me be.

Once I helped the young greaser gain his footing, I took off. I expected no thank you, it wouldn't make the world of a difference if he expressed his gratitude or not. But, just as I was rushing down the side walk, the young greaser called back to me.

"Thanks a lot, Clark." he grinned with appreciation. I returned the gratitude with a simple wave of my hand, and I was off again, my feet taking a stride much larger than the last. Had that just happened? Had I just encountered the young greaser I had been observing for years on end? I'd watched him for so long, that I felt I'd known him. But he never came alive to me until now. And he hadn't even told me his name.


	5. Chapter 5

Being one of the social class, I suppose we have less to worry about, in terms of being beaten over - being jumped. Although, when it is one soc against more than triple it's number in greasers, the tables begin to turn. As I've mentioned before, I am not one for violence, or one with a hate for the greasers. You should known me well enough by now to know that I would not engage in a fight between classes.

Although, at first glance, you wouldn't be able to tell the difference. To the naked eye, I was an average, ignorant soc. Or perhaps, it was not ignorance. The socials of hate knew very well of the affair they dealt with and the pain they inflicted. It was a matter of why they concerned themselves with such things. The motive behind it all.

Was it insecurity? Self doubt? Or possibly, they were exactly how they were perceived? Just cold-hearted and vile? Nevertheless, I refused to believe that they did it just for kicks, for self pleasure. Whatever the reason was, it obtained the power to drive them to destruction.

I kept my eyes focussed on the lace of my shoe as I picked up my pace to a swift stride. Eyes were boring into my back like lasers, causing me to shudder. Keeping my head focussed downward, I collided with another body, as firm as a statue. When my head rose up, my body begun to tremble. I was face to face with the likeliness of Dallas Winston. Initially, my nerves jumped sky high. Once again, like the night I had encountered the young greaser for the first time, I'd been watching him for so long that I felt I'd known him. But he was unfamiliar of me. He was oblivious to my sustained watch of him and was naive to my title. I was the observer. But, like most other observers, I was unknown by my watched.

"Watch where you're goin', pal." Dallas hissed, grasping a firm grip on me by the front of my sweater. His alcohol soaked breath danced on the little air there was between our lips, his ice-blue eyes tantalizing my soul. I've mentioned before, in confirmation, that I am heterosexual. However, I have also made you aware of my criticized vice. My attraction to Dallas Winston.

His words hung, he awaited a reply which, I can tell you, would not come. I had a bitten tongue, it would not comply with the words that sat in my throat. "What's a soc doin' on the East side all alone, huh? Did your posy leave ya or somethin'? Huh?" the memorising greaser pressed, tightening his grasp on my sweater. My bottom lip begun to quiver. I knew what was coming next - the strike.

"Give it to 'im, Dal!" a unruly holler came from the, now gathered, crowd of greasers, swarmed around us.

Without warning - or I suppose the call out should've been a alert - Dallas pulled back his fist and it met the flesh of my face with a sudden sting of pain, as I reeled backward and he unlatched his fingers from my clothing. What was I thinking before? I shouldn't of helped the young greaser. I had been so unmindful to the hate between our classes. I had facilitated him out of ignorance. And to serve as a consequence, I was getting beaten for my ingenuous decision. You would think this would discourage me into hardening my heart against the greasers, like those of my social class but, in fact, I wouldn't have it any other way.

When Dallas brought back his fist and hit me again, I staggered backwards, blood welling from my bottom lip and staining my teeth scarlet, I felt proud in a warped sense. It was almost morbid the way I enjoyed his knuckles on my cheek. It did ache, though. But I was not cursing him. He didn't know who I was, how was I to judge him? He was unaware, essentially innocent to his actions. "Why don't you fight back, huh?" he growled at me, seeming aggravated that I did not want to brawl with him. I sucked the bitter blood from my lip and looked at him with calm eyes.

"I don't believe in fighting." I muttered breathlessly. When all fails, admit the truth. That is what I did. At first, Dallas looked helpless, almost as if he was at a loss for words. He probably had never encountered a person of my class who wouldn't fight him. And so, not being able to deal with my humbleness, he turned to the crowd and hollered.

"Do you hear this punk? Do you hear this pussy? What do ya say, I give 'im a run for his money?". The small congregate roared with a cheer and I was no longer facing Dallas, the greaser. I was now opposite Dallas the boxer, the fighter. I could see the fire in his eyes. The fire seemed to melt the ice that it held. I would no longer be proud to be his opponent. I knew that.

While I didn't believe in fighting, I sure did believe in running. In mid-swing, I set in motion to run, like a road runner, I sped out of the assumed arena. Gasps and hollers were thrown at me but I did not stop. My breath staggering and my legs yelling out in pain, I just ran. I can assure you, I was not in fear of Dallas. I was in fear of what he was capable of.


End file.
